Shane: a continuation
by 0palmtree2
Summary: What ever did happen to Shane and the Starretts? Find out here.


_I wrote this story for school. The assignment was to write about what happens to Bobby Starrett six years after the book _Shane_ takes place. It would help to have read Shane previously to understand what is going on in my story. This story is told in first person from Bobby's point of view. It's a bit long, but well worth the read (I hope). Actually, the assignment was supposed to be a maximum of five pages. Mine was 11 pages. Luckily, the teacher accepted it anyway. Enjoy!_

_Disclaimer: I do not own Shane (the book and the character), Bobby, Marion, Joe, Fletcher, or Stark Wilson. I did make up Billy Smith and Geraldo._

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I walked into the dimly-lit bar, bursting with people. My boots squeaked against the polished granite floor. I casually swaggered up to the counter and slid onto a seat. I didn't have much money with me because I had left my home many days ago. The only thing on the list of drinks I could afford was-

"One soda pop," I said loudly, amid the hubbub of the bar. The innkeeper was engaged in idle chatter with another man, also at the counter. At the sound of my voice, he stood up and came over to me.

"One soda pop," I said again.

"Yeh, yeh, I heard ya," he said. However, he didn't make a move to get some; he just stood there, eyes traveling up over my weather-beaten complexion, browned by working the farm after my father's almost-fatal accident leaving him unable to get out of bed. I could see he was sizing me up.

Finally, he said, "So, you're new to Shanetown, aren't you?"Shanetown? Did he say _Shane_town? Could it be that after days of searching I finally found my Shane?

I looked up to the bar man and said mildly, " Shanetown, what an interesting name."

"Yes, yes it is an interesting name," he said slowly. He gave me a queer look, and then walked off to get my soda pop.

I sat down at a corner table of the bar to think. I rested my elbows on the tabletop with the soda pop hanging limply from my hand. I placed my head in my other hand and closed my eyes. I had a lot to think about, especially after this new development: a town called Shanetown. My thoughts were a jumbled mess in my head; I tried sorting them out. First, my father fell from our house roof while fixing a hole in the ceiling. This left him in an unfit condition to work, and so I took over for him. We all had hoped that this rest would quicken his recovery, but it didn't. The condition only worsened. Soon it got so bad that we all worried he wouldn't make it. He seemed to know it too, because just seven days ago he called me to his bedside and spoke to me.

He had said: "Bob, my son, you can see that I'm going to die._ Everyone _can see that I'm going to die, and it's- stop protesting, Bob - up to you to take care of Marion for me once I'm gone. I just want to ask you one thing. Six years ago when Shane was with us and we were still fighting for our rights and our land, we promised each other, Shane and me, that we would never be separated. However, after Shane was shot, he had to part. It wasn't my place to stop him. But now, just before I am going to die, I want Shane with me. I want to see him one last time, to look upon him with my eyes one last time. Please Bob, my son, fulfill your father's last wishes, please find Shane, please bring him home."

Just seven days later, here I am sitting in the Brazen Bear Bar. It's been six years since I last entered a bar as it brought back too many memories. The last few times that I was in a bar was with Shane, when he bought a soda pop for me, and now as I set out to find my hero- Shane- I too am drinking a soda pop.

I shook my head slightly; I had more important issues to deal with right now. First of all, I needed a place to stay for the time being. I finished my soda pop and walked up to the bar again; this time the bartender was alone, wiping the counter with a small rag.

"Sir, could you recommend an inn for me to stay at for the next few days? " I asked him.

"Oh yes. There's a perfect one right up on top of this bar," he answered immediately. "There haven't been many visitors recently so there should be some good rooms available. If you want to stay here you can pay for your board right now."

"That would be perfect," I said, laying down the appropriate fare. He took it and then I turned to walk up the steps at the back of the bar.

"Wait," he called from behind me. "What's your name?"

"Bob Starrett, friend, what's yours?"

"Billy Smith."

I nodded smartly and turned back to the stairs, walked up, and then entered the first door on my left: my room. I rested on the lumpy, somewhat moldy-smelling bed, but fell instantaneously into a deep slumber, a testament to how little I had slept the past few days. When I awoke, it was dark outside and I was starving. Billy graciously found me some left-over stew; although only lukewarm, it was hearty and filling. As I ate, Billy and I spoke.

"Shanetown," I said, "What an unusual name. Mind telling me how this town of yours got its name?"

The innkeeper lumbered out of his well-worn, much aged wooden bar stool, and with a crooked smile and a gleam in his eye, he began this tale.

"This town began much the same as all the others, with a dozen people, a general store and this here inn. By and by, more inhabitants came and we built ourselves up. Most of the townsfolk were homesteaders, 'cept the few of us that owned the local stores. Well, one day a new guy arrives; Geraldo was his name. He was the worst type of man: a rancher. In no time, he started buying up poor folks' land, terrorizing, threatening, and chasing away anyone he could. Everyone was scared of Geraldo and no one would stand up to him. Until one day, a local boy, but 15 years old, named Shane, had the guts to do what we all should have done. Right out there in the center of town, in clear daylight, he shot Geraldo dead. That was it. Townsfolk were so grateful, they renamed the town after our hero."

"Mind telling me more about this Shane fellow?" I asked innocently. The innkeeper shifted uncomfortably in his chair for a few moments before he answered. When he did, it seemed like he was nervous and he was choosing his words carefully.

"Well, no one really knows, uh, much about him. All we know is that he was a soft-spoken man, one who never liked fighting just for fun unless there was a need. He was also a firm believer in justice and fairness." The innkeeper paused, and then suddenly chuckled loudly. "And you could never be seen in his presence without your shirt tucked in, shoelaces tied, hair well-groomed, and belt buckled. Even from the time he was a child he was always the neatest boy in the whole town." The innkeeper sighed. "Well that's about all I know. How 'bout you go on outside and get out of this stodgy old place, eh?" When he saw that I wasn't laughing, he hung his head and told me that he would clean up after me. I complied and left, feeling very dejected.

You could plainly see that he was in a great haste to get rid of me. But why? I went outside to get some fresh air and pondered the story the innkeeper just told me. I had many more questions. It seemed like I wasn't getting the whole picture. That night, I just couldn't sleep. I felt restless, confused and drained. I left my room and began to head to the bar for a drink, but at the top of the steps, I made out soft voices whispering and something made me freeze and listen intently. I tried to hold my breath, fearing that any noise might give my presence away and prevent me from hearing the men's words. The name of "Shane" had just been spoken!

"I don't like this one bit. The last time some stranger came poking around asking about our Shane, it was bad news," said an unfamiliar voice.

"I know what you mean," Bill said, "It was that same summer in '69 when Stark Wilson rode into town looking for Shane and we haven't heard or seen from our hero since then. Yet, it seems like just yesterday that Shane killed Geraldo and saved this town. Yep, it's hard to believe with parents as timid and passive as his that Shane could have it in him to stand up to that rancher. When Stark came nosing around asking for information about Shane and his family, how could anyone have known that he was Geraldo's half-brother? Poor Shane wasn't around when Stark burst into his parent's house seeking revenge. His parents didn't have a chance. Stark, that coward, shot them both in the back during supper. When Shane returned home and found his parents, his horror and rage knew no bounds. Shane rode out of town in pursuit of Stark and we haven't seen or heard from him since."

I staggered backwards and grabbed wildly at the stair rail to regain my balance. I felt like I'd just been punched in the stomach. It was hard to take a breath and the room seemed to spin. Shane's parents killed and him missing! After the initial shock wore off and the words I heard slowly sunk in, the true tragedy of the situation began to dawn on me. I felt a profound sadness and an intense desire to know where Shane was now. It was the summer of '89 that Shane came to our valley. 20 years after he had sworn to kill his parents' murderer. He had gotten the chance, and he had triumphed. He had beat Stark Wilson. He had saved a town yet again from a cruel rancher. Fate had decided that he undoubtedly face Stark in a showdown to death. He had succeeded but not without paying the price. Only now, I understood why Shane left in such a hurry the night he was shot. How could he, who had for 20 years been a loner, die in such a populated place? It had to be just him and his faithful horse.

But as I thought about Shane, his graceful manner, his silent, deadly composure, and his loving, pained heart, full of sorrows great enough to break a lesser man, I had one thought that towered above the rest. It was when one of the farmers had said that no bullet could pierce Shane, and I realized he was right. I was hit by a sudden realization that Shane didn't die, _couldn't _die. That he was still out there somewhere, wandering the countryside. But through my delirious happiness an anger was boiling up inside of me, threatening to spew forth from me uncontrolled. How could it be that these townsfolk, who looked up to Shane as their hero, never looked for him? I had to leave this town. Already they didn't trust me for my questions about Shane. I had gotten all the information that I needed. I would go pack now.

I left through a back exit. I slipped quietly down the stairs and out into the night. After I snuck my horse away from the stables, I reared him into a gallop. We didn't stop for anything, not when it started to rain, not when, while I whipped past a low hanging branch, my hat fell off, not even when my horse stumbled and I was hurled off, causing a big cut to appear down the side of my face. As the rain continued its relentless beating, the water mingled with the tears on my cheeks. Whether I was crying from my facial injury or from my heart injury, I will not know. I cried for Shane, and for everything about him that I loved. I cried for myself, that I might never see my hero again. I cried for my father, my precious, wonderful father, who would die. And most of all I cried for the injustice of it all. The unfairness and confusion of this whole event threatened to overtake me and plunge me into a pool of anguish and hatred.

Wildly I called out to the surrounding forest, " Why me? Why must it be me, a mere 17-year-old boy having to deal with these horrors? Will it always be my destiny to be haunted by the past of Shane? Will fate let go of me for once?"

However, it seems like fate had one last trick up its sleeve. For while I was ranting and raving, my horse galloped off the straight path of the road and into the dense, somewhat tropical hinterland of forest. The horse ran frenziedly through the underbrush as if possessed by some demon, and ran if possible, faster than it had back on the trail. By that time, I had calmed down, and I was furiously, but to no avail, trying to get the horse to stop. When I realized my efforts were futile, I stopped wasting my strength and hoped that the horse would come out triumphantly on the other side, just a few miles from my home. What I hoped for more was that the horse hadn't gone crazy and that I'd be stuck here forever.

Suddenly the horse came to an abrupt halt. Almost like a light bulb that one second is shining merrily and the next has gone out. Whereas before I had tried getting him to stop, now all I wanted him to do was start moving again and get me out of here. He wouldn't budge. I slid off from the saddle and crumpled to the ground. My legs weren't accustomed to walking yet. I hobbled around for a few moments, and then finally I straightened up and took a good look around.

I was in a clearing of some sort surrounded by bramble and ferns. I decided to explore. I turned to my right to start there, but my horse trotted over to me and gently nudged me to the left.

" Okay, okay, I'm going," I responded to this gesture. I walked over to the left. What I saw nearly made my heart stop, for lying on the ground were some familiar black clothes, and in them was…

"Shane," I gasped. I ran over to the still figure lying on the ground. I turned its over onto it back to reveal it was Shane. All of the color drained out of my face as I looked at the chalky whiteness of Shane's face, his skeletal corpse, and his matted hair. And then I saw Shane's gun. It was laying a few feet away from him. His arm was outstretched towards it, but he never made it before he died. That was what made me snap. The sight of the gun was too much for me. It was as if my eyes zeroed in on the gun, obscuring my vision from anything else. The tears came again. This time I wasn't crying in a fit of madness, rather this time I cried tears of mourning. Shane was everything to me. He was my father, my mentor, my friend. He never ever put me down or belittled me for things I didn't know. Instead he showed me, he helped me grow, encouraged me to aspire toward my dreams. He taught me that I should never do something out of anger or frustration. That I should stand up for my rights. That I should be like my father: strong, solid, bold. My father, whom Shane respected and loved.

And while I thought of my father I knew he would never get better again. And I knew that I had failed as a son, for I could not bring Shane back to him in life. That was when all of my emotions congealed together into a big ball of fury. I was angry at everyone. Shane, that he died without saying goodbye to me. My father, for having gotten hurt in the first place, and myself, that I had trusted in the traitor, Shane. I cried and cried. The weather matched my mood and picked up in velocity. The howling of the wind became my voice. My voice of rage. My voice of pain.

At that moment, I wanted to die, to escape from the agony tormenting me, and to find ultimate peace in a place beyond. Nothing mattered anymore as long as I reached Shane. I jerkily rose and picked up Shane's gun and aimed it a few inches away from my head. My mind was calm, and my heartbeat, a steady rhythm in my chest. I was prepared. I tightened my grip on the trigger. And that was when an amazing thing happened.

"Bobby, you're holding the gun wrong."

I started, and released the pressure on the trigger. I looked around wildly but I could see no one.

"Bobby put down the gun."

"What… where … who are you?"

"Bobby, put down the gun. Bobby, put down the gun. Bobby, put down the gun."

The voice echoed inside my head. I tried shaking my head to clear it but nothing worked. I placed the trigger to my head again and almost pulled when the voice in my head got louder and louder, until it reached an almost unbearable pitch.

" Put down the gun. Put down the gun. Put down the gun."

It circled around me swirling in a searing vortex of power all the while shouting, 'Put down the gun.' It ensnared me and trapped me, bringing me up in its whirlwind of force. It was too much for me. I couldn't bear it anymore, couldn't stand it. I screamed as I dropped the gun. The wind snatched it up into the night, and I never saw it again. It was as it left my sight, the voice stopped. My anger left me, and a feeling of calmness returned. I looked at the body of Shane but didn't cry. My body was devoid of all emotions. I just sat there with him until the first few rays of sunshine shone through the leaves. I hoisted the limp body of Shane up into the saddle and then I clambered on after.

The horse found its way back to the road and we continued on our way, slowly this time. We were in no rush; the slowness helped me cool down and think about what had happened to me in the forest over there. I was scared about what I would find when I got home. I didn't think I could face any more deaths without going completely berserk.

I rounded the corner to my house. It was still the early morning so I was surprised when I saw my mother outside watering the plants. I tethered the horse to a tree and walked the rest of the way. When I got to our porch, my mother turned toward me.

"Oh, Bob," she cried. She ran over to me and swung her arms around my neck planting a kiss on my cheek. After she unglued herself, I led her to the horse and to Shane and explained everything that happened and that I'd heard. When I finished she hugged me again, and said, " Bob, this will be so hard on your father." I nodded. "I will be the one to tell him, okay?" I nodded again. "Don't worry, you did the right thing by bringing his body back. I'm proud of you." This time I smiled and_ I_ hugged _her_. We went inside the house together to see… my father sitting at the kitchen table as if nothing was wrong. When I left, he'd been deathly ill, but when I came back he looked fine. I was shocked, and I didn't fail to ask him about it (after hugs and kisses of course.)

"Well," he answered, " it was the eighth night after you left, or so I'm told. And I had been delirious with fever, yelling out 'Bob' over and over again. That morning I felt much better, and at noon on the next day my fever broke. It was during the transition of in and out of fever, when I remembered a dream that I had had on the eighth night, the night that I kept calling out your name. It was an image of Shane, and he was telling me that I had to stop you from doing something horrible. I was calling out your name but nothing happened. Nothing except that at the end of the dream, Shane appeared to me again and said 'You are a great father Joe; keep Bob safe. I am giving you some more years of your life to live because it is up to you to train him to your utmost ability.' Then he left. The next morning I was better and here I am now," he smiled broadly. I gave a strangled cry as I realized that it was that eighth night when I wanted to commit suicide. It took the combined strength of my father and Shane to help me through. I needed to think, so I left the house and walked around to the back yard. I knew my mother was busy explaining what I told her to Joe. I knew that _I _had changed, the night I spent with Shane's body. Moreover, I knew that I had a wonderful family who lived as Shane said in a lovely land, helping me 'grow straight inside as a man should.'

THE END

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_Hope you liked it. Comments, criticism, and reviews are, of course, welcome. _


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